


It's Such An Ancient Pitch

by LayALioness



Series: Bellarke Halloweek! [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as Bellamy knows, "scam fortune teller" has never really been his type, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Such An Ancient Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> For apanoplyofsong
> 
> Title from Frank Sinatra's 'Witchcraft.'

When O shows up at his apartment, demanding he come with her, Bellamy was expecting her to maybe drag him to a hypnotherapist, or something. Maybe an acupuncture place—Octavia’s been getting into some pretty new-age stuff lately, so really, anything goes.

He’s _not_ expecting to find himself in front of a store named _Aeaea_. The reference alone would usually be enough to lure him inside, but underneath the bold letters, the sign says _witchcraft services_ , which makes him frown a little.

“O, what are we doing here?”

His sister rolls her eyes impressively, digging her fingers into his arm until he winces. “I’m tired of hearing you whine about your back,” she huffs, dragging him forward. “Apparently this girl does a crystal massage that can heal you.”

“A _what_ massage?” Bellamy levels his sister with a stern glare. He’d honestly thought he raised her better than this. Clearly, her new job has been a bad influence.

She’s recently started work at a tattoo parlor. He, predictably, hates the place and everyone who goes there. O, even more predictably, cited that as one of the reasons she chose to take the job.

“Crystals, you know—pretty rocks from inside the earth? People sometimes wear them as jewelry, it was a popular girl’s name when I was a kid, there are—”

“Funny,” he frowns, and she grins up at him, pushing the door open with her hip.

“I thought so,” she chirps, dragging him in by the elbow.

The first thing Bellamy notices is how bright everything is. It’s a relatively small shop, with a single room with some bookshelves selling things in glass bottles, which he assumes to be _potions_ , but are probably just off-brand shampoos. There’s a curtain in the back, probably hiding the employee’s lounge or something. It’s white, and lacy, made out of what looks like a bunch of very old handkerchiefs. Besides the potions, there’s really not much about the place that screams _witchcraft_. Octavia’s tattoo shop looks more occult, to be honest.

“Hi,” someone says, and Bellamy turns to find a dark skinned man walk out from behind the curtain. He’s tall, and well-built, with ink sprawling out from under his button-down, and a Mohawk. “Can I help you?”

He gives Octavia a smile, and Bellamy’s head begins to throb.

“Yes, please!” she says, pitch higher than usual, smile brighter. She flips her hair a little, so her eyebrows show better, which is her signature flirting move. “My brother’s having back issues, so I scheduled us for a massage.”

Bellamy looks back at her. “What, _both_ of us?”

“You’re not the only one with stress, Bellamy,” she hisses, giving him the _don’t you dare fuck this up for me_ look that she’s perfected over the years.

He can’t completely swallow the laugh, but manages to turn it into a snort at the last minute. “Right.” He turns back to the man, who’s politely letting them finish their weird sibling bullshit. “So, where are these crystals of yours?”

“Oh, Clarke does all the massages,” he says pleasantly, writing something down on a memo pad covered in cat stickers. He tears off the sheet, and hands it over.

It’s a receipt, in nearly illegible handwriting, but Bellamy can read enough to understand the whole appointment costs one hundred and thirty-three dollars.

“What the fuck,” he says, quiet with shock. Octavia elbows him in the ribs anyway.

“Don’t worry, asshole,” she says sweetly, snatching the paper away. “I just got my first commission. This is on me.”

Bellamy’s knee-jerk reaction is to fight her on it, but Octavia is like him in more ways than one, and he knows she’ll just get pissed if he does, and maybe a little offended. It’s his own fault, he knows; she’d watched him, growing up, as he counted pennies and nickels to pay for their own ice cream even when the neighborhood kids with extra cash from their parents offered to cover them. She’d seen him time and time again, get flustered and embarrassed whenever their landlord tried to cut them a break on the rent. In hindsight, he probably should have made sure she had a healthier relationship with money, but this is where they are now.

“Fine,” he shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. She eyes him a little suspiciously, so he turns back to the man—cashier? Do witches _have_ cashiers? He doesn’t even see a register anywhere in the store. Maybe they carry the money in a coat with magic sleeves, or something equally absurd. “So, who’s Clark?”

“I’m Clarke.” A tired-looking blonde girl steps out of the curtain, and Bellamy has to admit, she definitely fits the whole _witch_ image—wearing a dark skirt with a dozen jagged layers to it, and a peasant blouse that somehow manages to look good on her, and about a hundred different pendants hanging around her neck and arms—which is why it’s so disconcerting that he finds her inexplicably _hot_.

As far as he knows, _scam fortune teller_ has never really been his type, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything.

“Bellamy,” he says, a little gruffer than he means to, because he’s actually into a woman who earns a living by posing as a witch.

Clarke doesn’t seem to notice, just takes the memo pad from her coworker, looking it over. “I know,” she says, sounding bored, and he actively decides to hate her.

“And you’re Octavia?” Clarke asks, glancing up at where his sister was now openly flirting with the warlock—those are male witches, right? He’s pretty sure.

“Yep,” O says, popping the _p._ “The better Blake.”

Clarke smirks, looking at Bellamy for the first time, and he feels his stomach twist, which is all sorts of embarrassing. She just has a very—distracting mouth.

“Well, I’ll do your brother first, if that’s alright,” she says, and Bellamy splutters a little.

Octavia thumps him on the back a few times, grinning. “Sounds great!”

“Yeah,” Bellamy grumbled, following Clarke through the curtain.

“Go ahead and strip down as much as you’re comfortable with, and lie down on your back,” she instructs, all professionalism, waving a hand towards a cot in the middle of the room. This one’s smaller than the first one, and there’s a second cloth curtain—a dark midnight blue, this time—strung up in the back.

Bellamy eyes the whole thing suspiciously. There’s not much in here—the cot, the curtain, and a few shelves holding bins filled with various rocks, and what he thinks might be old-fashioned measuring cups. “Come again?”

Clarke sighs, looking up at him, unimpressed. She’s quite a bit shorter than him, but even as he stares down on her, she doesn’t seem small. “You can cut the act. We both know you don’t believe in what I do.”

Bellamy snorts a little, incredulous. “I didn’t think I was really pretending,” he shrugs. “I’m just here because of my sister.”

He all but bites the words out at her, but to his surprise, she just grins. Her eyes flash a little, mean and hungry, and he wonders if he might be able to turn this whole thing into some hate sex.

“Just lie down so I can heal you,” she says smugly, “And prove you wrong.”

Bellamy lets out a surprised laugh. “Alright.” He tugs his shirt off, and is gratified when she has a little trouble not staring. “You asked for it,” he teases, and she pushes lightly on his stomach, back towards the cot.

“ _Down_ ,” she says, voice steady and professional, but neck a mottled pink. He sinks down on the cot with a grin, and lays down completely when she gives an exasperated huff. “Close your eyes,” she orders.

“What, I’m not allowed to see the magic?” But he shuts them, anyway.

“You couldn’t handle seeing the magic,” she snaps, and there’s another snide response on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly something heavy and warm lands on his chest, prickling the skin there. He tenses up at the feel. “Relax,” she coos, oddly soothing, and he feels her fingers on his arm, firm and soft all at the same time. “Relax,” she says again, and he does.

When he wakes up, Clarke’s wiping down the shelves with a paint-stained cloth, and his shirt is nicely folded up on his stomach. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and then turns to find Clarke smirking down at him, like she’s already won.

He frowns, about to say something, maybe get her worked up about it, but—the near-permanent throbbing in his back that he’d almost completely gotten used to, is gone.

“You fixed my back,” he says dumbly, and she beams at him. It’s a little hard to take in all at once, so he squints.

“It’s sort of what I do,” she teases, and he sits up with a yawn.

He stretches—mostly to test out his back, but partly to watch her try not to check him out. She fails miserably—and then tugs his shirt back on.

He’s about to ask if she always worked so quickly—or something to that effect. Easy tone, a few smiles, and then ease his way into a coffee date. He’s not _totally_ inept; Clarke’s gorgeous, and even if she isn’t really a witch, she did heal his back. And if she is a witch, she’ll probably have some cool stories to share with him over drinks.

But then she clears her throat and says “Can you send Octavia in on your way out?” A complete dismissal.

“Sure thing, princess,” he snaps, not really meaning to. He’d be okay with being shot down, but she’s just deemed him totally irrelevant. Like he’s not even worth conversation, which. Well, it stings a little. And he’s defensive by nature.

Apparently, so is Clarke, because she glares and says “Thanks, asshole,” without missing a beat, as Bellamy storms through the curtain.

“You’re up,” he snaps at Octavia, perched on one of the emptier tables and smiling up at the cashier. She frowns over at Bellamy.

“What did you do?” she demands. “Did you seriously just piss off a _witch_? _Everyone_ knows not to do that!”

“Just go get the stupid massage, O,” he says with a sigh, and she slides down, shooting one last glare before disappearing.

He and the cashier eye each other for a few seconds, before the man speaks. “I am Lincoln, by the way.”

“Bellamy. So, are you like a warlock or something?”

Lincoln’s mouth twitches a little, and Bellamy gets the distinct feeling that he’s trying hard not to laugh. “Something like that,” he agrees. “How is your back? Octavia said you threw it out playing hockey?”

Bellamy sighs, because of course she did. “Something like that,” he echoes, and then pulls out his phone to play Candy Crush until Octavia comes back out.

She’s got a little smile, and her hair’s all mussed up. “Okay,” she sighs happily. “We can go, now.”

She pays Lincoln with the checkbook she was really excited to buy but almost never gets to use—the background picture is Bumblebee from _Transformers_ —and Lincoln gives her a business card Bellamy’s pretty sure has his personal number written on the back.

“You only wanted to come so you could flirt with Lincoln,” he accuses once they’re outside.

“Yeah,” Octavia shrugs, too relaxed to deny it. “And I could have just left you at home with your fucked up back, but I didn’t. You’re welcome, loser.”

He snorts and swings his arm around her as they walk. They live in the same apartment, but their schedules don’t really line up often enough for them to do things like this. Often, one of them is sleeping while the other’s at work, and they’ll go whole days without running into each other, the dishes in the sink as their only proof that the other one’s alive.

It’s nice, he decides grudgingly. Even if he had to spend the day on a scam artist’s shop. They get burritos on the way home.

After that, Bellamy pretty much forgets about Clarke. It’s tourist season, so the museum’s busier than usual, and O’s parlor is buzzing more and more, the nearer they get to Halloween.

“It’s a big season for tattoos, Bell,” she says with a flip of her hair. She’s texting someone, and he’s like ninety-nine percent sure it’s Lincoln, which he’s not sure he likes. Generally his sister has pretty good taste in guys, and so he’d just leave her to ring them in like one of those spiders that eats their mates after sex. But Lincoln _might_ be a witch—or something—which makes everything trickier.

“I wasn’t aware tattoos had _seasons_ ,” he says drily, and O throws a pillow at his face.

He doesn’t actually realize it until he gets that month’s phone bill in the mail. Octavia always rolls her eyes when she sees him opening the letters on the couch, because _God, Bell, it’s the twenty-first century; just get that shit online_. But Bellamy _likes_ opening letters, and he likes having tangible proof in his hands, so he usually ignores her.

But the phone bill is _two hundred dollars_. They have a plan which includes both of their cell phones, and he can see that most of the calls listed were made by Octavia’s. At first he just assumes it’s because she’s been in constant contact with Lincoln lately, but then he notices a second number, dialed almost as frequently as the first. It has their town’s area code, the one that the businesses use, so he calls it.

“Aeaea Witchcraft Services,” a voice chirps, and it’s decidedly not Lincoln’s.

Bellamy hangs up and glares at his phone, like it’s the cause of all his problems. Then he storms over to the store, so he can be angry at Clarke in person. He prefers to have all his arguments in person, if possible—it’s easier to intimidate people when they can see him, and this way, they can’t just hang up.

He must storm in just before closing, because she’s sweeping the main lobby when he shows up.

She squints over at him, confused, and he all but throws his phone bill in her face. “So it’s not enough that you take my sister’s money for your overpriced massage, but now you’re _charging her by the minute_?”

Clarke frowns down at the paper and then back up at him. “I thought I changed that setting for her,” she says, annoyed, and holds out a hand. “Let me call your phone company and get this sorted out.”

Bellamy just sort of blinks stupidly at her for a moment. It’s just—never been this easy, before. He was expecting a lot more yelling, to be honest, and not all from his side. “Uh, sure.” He hands it over and waits as she dials the number from the bill, pursing her lips as it rings.

She looks like an irritated mom, he thinks, calling her child’s school about their grades. He’s not sure he’s okay with being the child, in this scenario.

Surprisingly, when she speaks to the person at the other end of the line, her tone is even and professional, not clipped at all. She explains their situation, and thanks them once everything’s done, before hanging up.

Then she glares at him. “I did that for Octavia,” she snarls, and hands back his phone. “The phone here automatically charges people, because usually my only callers are for phone readings.”

“Why was she calling you, anyway?” He’s willing to admit now, that maybe she’s not _really_ a scam artist. He’s still pretty sure she’s not actually magic, but he’s getting the sense she doesn’t take advantage of people like he’d thought.

“None of your business,” she snaps, and he bites back a grin. “She’s her own person, and she’s entitled to her privacy. Ask her, yourself.”

It’s hard to dislike her, when she’s defending his little sister’s honor to him. “Yeah, okay. So what are these little circle things?” He prods at a basket filled with keychains, with round glass spheres dangling from the ends in different colors. Clarke squints up at him, like she’s trying to decide if he’s serious.

“Charms,” she says slowly. “Different colors do different things. Silver for communication, white for information, pink for success in love, gold for success in fortune, yellow for luck, orange for success in work, blue for wisdom and purple for spirituality.”

Bellamy picks up a bright red one. “What about this?”

Clarke smirks, and it’s unfair really, how hot she is. Even in her ridiculous skirt and peasant top. “Sexual prowess.”

Bellamy drops it back in the basket, and she laughs before folding her hand in, and plucking out a rich green bit of glass, holding it out to him.

“This one’s the one you want,” she tells him. “Green is for history, healing, harmony. Finding your place in the world.”

Bellamy takes it, a little bewildered. “Thanks. How much?” He goes for his wallet, but she just shakes her head.

“On the house. One-time offer, though. If you show up with your electricity bill, I’m hexing you.”

Bellamy laughs, to sudden to stop it, and puts the charm in his pocket. “I guess that’s fair. Bye, Clarke.”

Octavia’s sprawled out on the couch when he gets home, alternating between painting her nails a sparkly midnight blue, and texting Lincoln with her nose so she doesn’t smear polish on her phone screen.

“How come you keep calling Clarke?” he asks, and she tips her head back to frown at him.

“Tell me you didn’t go yell at her or something equally dumb,” she whines, and he throws his hands up.

“No comment.”

She groans, sitting up. “I like talking to her,” she shrugs, voice impressively even, which means she’s working hard to stay calm. He appreciates the effort. “She’s got good advice. She’s cool.”

“What do you talk about?”

“I don’t know,” she huffs a little. “Boy, mostly. And girls, in Clarke’s case.” She glares over at him. “She’s _nice_ , Bell. I like her. I don’t care if you don’t.”

Bellamy shrugs. “I like her too,” he says, and she stares at him, clearly disbelieving, which—okay, that’s fair. Bellamy doesn’t really _like_ anybody, but. He does, with Clarke. “What? I do.”

“O-kay,” Octavia smirks, going back to her nails. “Well if she got you on her side, she really _must_ be a witch.”

“Whatever.” He pulls his house keys out, and slips the charm on the chain. It catches the light and glows a little.

After that, he’s willing to admit he might like the town’s resident witch—if she even _is_ a witch, which is still debatable. It’s not like he’s actually seen her perform magic. He fell asleep on her cot and woke up with no back pain; that’s not really hard evidence. But, she’s nice, if a little rough around the edges. But that really only makes him like her _more_. It feels like more of an accomplishment, getting her to smile, or actually laugh. She’s like a half-feral cat, slowly warming up to him.

But she doesn’t actually start to, until he runs into her at the Food Lion in town.

He’s also willing to admit that most of his plan to see more of Clarke involves walking around town a lot, hoping to run into her— _organically_ , or something. Octavia’s making fun of him for it.

He hasn’t actually seen or talked to Clarke since the phone bill incident, so it’s a little surprising when he finds her in aisle four three days later, scrutinizing all the cans of soup.

She’s not wearing one of her layered skirt-peasant blouse combos. Instead she has on a pair of tight, faded jeans and a Captain America shirt that’s so worn-in it’s gone a little see-through. He can see the black band of her bra, and some sort of pink lace pattern. It’s all very unfair, really. He hadn’t expected to see her today, so he’s wearing his usual grocery shopping outfit, which involves sweatpants and whatever shirt he could find. He’s clearly at a disadvantage.

“Uh, hi,” he says, and she jumps a little, which is gratifying. Then she gives him a pretty blatant once-over, which is even better.

“Of all the grocery stores in all the world,” she grins, and he laughs a little hopelessly.

“So, do you need backup?” he asks, and she looks at him, confused. He nods to the shelves of soup. “You looked ready to fight them.”

She snorts, and tosses two cans of cream of mushroom in her basket, laughing when he makes a face. “What?”

“It’s just— _no one_ likes cream of mushroom,” he says, disgusted. “It’s _cream of mushroom_.”

“ _I_ like mushrooms,” she declares, and he might have to rethink his crush on her. But then she grins at him, and he thinks _maybe not_. “So, what’s up?”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s trying to flirt with him, and badly, which somehow makes everything much easier.

“Besides your clearly terrible taste in soup, you mean,” he teases, and she shoves his arm. “Not much. I’m stocking up on spinach and broccoli, because if I don’t force feed them to her, Octavia will live off cup ramen.”

“You’re a good brother,” Clarke decides, and he flushes.

“You should tell her that,” he says, clearing his throat. “So, Halloween’s in a week. I’m assuming it’s a big day for witches.”

“Definitely,” Clarke grins. “We all get together in the woods, take off all our clothes, and dance around in circles.”

“Really? That’s like an average Tuesday for me.”

She laughs, and walks him to the vegetable aisle, which he takes as a good sign. “What about you? Any plans for trick or treating?”

“I have my pillowcase ready and everything,” he says wryly.

“Wow, _pillowcase_? How old are you? Everyone knows they use those plastic pumpkin buckets, now.”

Bellamy grins all through checking out, and then walks her across the parking lot, to her car. It’s a decidedly _not_ shitty Jeep Cherokee, one of the old ones that he’s pretty sure they don’t even make anymore.

“How do you even still have that?” he asks, staring at the car. “What does it _run_ on?”

Clarke grins wickedly as she steps inside. “Magic.” She turns the key, and the engine roars to life. It sounds like a dying lion. “Bye, Bellamy.”

He almost doesn’t go to her store the next day, but—she was _flirting_ with him, he’s positive. And he _likes_ her, even if he doesn’t really know much about her. He’d like to know more.

Lincoln isn’t there when he walks in, or if he is, he’s in the back somewhere, which is just as well. Bellamy would rather his sister doesn’t know how pathetic he is, at least not immediately.

“So, I’m thinking I need one of those luck charms,” he says, leaning over to search around in the basket, while Clarke just watches with a raised brow.

“For what?”

“They’re giving a promotion at work,” he shrugs, which is true enough. It might not be in his department, and he’s not even in the running, but. He’d needed an excuse, and it’s a good one. “I figure—it can’t hurt, right?”

Clarke worries her lip, biting back a smile. “Right,” she agrees, plucking one from the pile and ringing him up.

It’s definitely overpriced—five dollars for a piece of colored glass?—but he hands the money over easily. Then he leans his elbows on the counter. “So, what brought you to Ark, anyway?”

Clarke shrugs, and if she’s surprised he’s staying to small talk, she gives no sign. “I grew up here, actually. We moved when I was twelve, but I always liked it here.” She eyes him expectantly. “You didn’t grow up here. You’re not that much older than me. I would have remembered.”

He shakes his head. “O and I are from the city. We moved when I got the job at the museum.”

“They don’t have museums in the city?” she asks, curious, and he hesitates a little. She notices. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s—I got mixed up with some bad guys in high school. And O wasn’t doing great, either. Our mom died when she was fifteen, so I got custody of her, and neither of us took it well. She was in and out of juvie for a while, so when I got this job, it just seemed like a blessing, you know? We both needed to get out.” He shrugs a little. “Plus, we like it here, too. It’s quiet.”

Clarke gives a soft smile. “Yeah.”

“Your turn,” he says, and she grins.

“My turn to what?”

“I shared my depressing backstory,” he points out. “Now you have to share yours.”

“I didn’t ask for your backstory,” she argues. “You decided to tell it to me.”

“You don’t have to,” he echoes, and she gives a heavy sigh.

“Well now I do, or else we’ll be uneven. My dad died when I was seventeen, along with my best friend. We were all in the car together, and there was an accident, but I was in the backseat, so I was okay. Well—alive, I guess. I met Lincoln one year later, and we decided to go into business together. He’s the one that makes the charms,” she nods over to the basket. “And I do the readings and massages.”

“What about your mom?” He’s not going to say _sorry_. He’s heard his fair share of _sorry_ ’s over the years, and they never help.

“She’s still in Canada,” Clarke shrugs. “We skype. She’s coming to visit for Christmas. But Ark reminds her of my dad, so she didn’t want to come back with me.”

Bellamy reaches over to squeeze her hand—just a little, and only for a second. But she squeezes back before he lets go.

He goes back every day that week, buying a new charm each time. The next one’s white, and he claims he needs to know more about one of the exhibits at work, and the second one’s yellow, because he wants to _mix things up_. Then there’s orange, for another fake promotion, and purple, because he’s thinking about going to church. He decidedly stays away from pink and red, because he’s not _that_ bold, and if Clarke thinks he’s ridiculous and completely unsubtle, she doesn’t say. She just rings him up, and then chats with him for the next hour, trading bits and pieces for the ones he hands out, in between phone calls and actual customers.

Lincoln’s taken to just heading back behind the curtain whenever he walks in, which is only sort of embarrassing. He appreciates the sentiment, at least.

Octavia confronts him about it on Wednesday. To be honest, he’d been expecting her a lot sooner.

“Are you seriously stalking Clarke because you don’t have the balls to ask her out?”

Bellamy glances up at her mildly. Octavia’s always overly harsh when she wants him to do something, because she thinks goading him into it is more fun. “I have a strategy,” he says.

“Which involves spending all your money on keychains?”

“Hey, your boyfriend makes those,” he points out. “I’m being supportive.”

O rolls her eyes. “I _know_ he makes them,” she pulls out her own set of keys so he can see the pink glass dangling from the chain. “And I also know you’re an idiot. Just ask her out, already! She’s totally into you—why else would she let you be creepy and weird at her store all the time?”

Bellamy flushes without really meaning to, which makes her smug. “It’s a witchcraft store,” he says petulantly. “It’s already creepy and weird. But, you’re right. I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is the day after Halloween. He’s almost tempted to just cancel on Monroe’s party, and call Clarke to see if she wants to hang out. But he’d promised Monroe _months_ ago that he’d come, and Clarke’s probably doing some important witch stuff, anyway. Sure, she’d sounded like she was kidding about dancing naked in the woods, but. It’s not like he knows for sure.

Monroe’s the newest guard at his museum, and she’s the kind of person it’s impossible to dislike. She gets along with everyone, which is why her parties are always so full. Monroe throws a million parties a year, and each outdoes the last one.

And she’s recently gotten engaged to her girlfriend, Lexa, who runs the town kink shop, which is where tonight’s party is being held. They’ve even got a theme this time; eighties’ movie ex symbols, which seems oddly specific.

Bellamy doesn’t really know Lexa all that well, despite working in the same town as her. Most of what he knows, he knows because Monroe is stupid in love with her and won’t shut up about it. Lexa seems to keep mostly to herself, and Monroe, quietly observing her surroundings like a cat deciding whether or not a mouse is worth hunting.

Which is why he’s surprised that when they show up at the shop, Lexa’s dressed as Jessica Rabbit, and engaged in cheerful conversation with Clarke Griffin.

He’s not sure what she’s supposed to be, but she’s wearing a pair of skin-tight leather pants with enormous black boots, and some sort of corset with buttons. Her hair’s a mile high, teased in the traditional eighties style, and her eyes are smeared with bright glittery fuchsia. She’s holding what he’s pretty sure is a crystal ball.

Bellamy’s very aware that he’s staring, but he can’t really _stop_ , until someone jabs their elbow in his back.

He turns to find Miller, dressed as Magnum PI, grinning back at him wryly. “I’m guessing that’s the fortune teller?”

Miller’s the senior guard at the museum, and they usually eat lunch together. Bellamy may have told him a few Clarke-related stories, which he is beginning to regret.

“Clarke, yeah.”

“Maybe you should just go talk to her.”

“Maybe you should just go talk to Monty,” Bellamy shoots, and Miller flushes. Monty works with the Chinese Arts exhibits, and he’s the one who ended up with the promotion.

He almost doesn’t notice the bit of ink showing from under Miller’s undershirt, just a few inches of irritated skin. “Is that a tattoo?”

Miller’s face goes impressively blank, which Bellamy takes to mean _yes._ He frowns a little—why wouldn’t Miller want him to know about his tattoo? Unless…

“Did you have my _sister_ do your tattoo?” he asks, incredulous, and Miller stays quiet. “I can’t believe this,” he says, disgruntled.

“She’s good,” Miller shrugs, taking a swig from his beer, and Bellamy shoots him a betrayed glare.

“She’s my _sister_ ,” he says, like it’s a valid argument. Miller just shrugs a second time.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend to find?” he asks pointedly.

“No,” Bellamy snaps, petulant. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

But in the end, Clarke finds him anyway.

“Bellamy,” she grins, and he tries very hard to swallow.

Miller gives him a very unsubtle nod before leaving, presumably to find Monty, or maybe just watch everyone else act drunk and stupid. He’ll probably get more than a few pictures that they’ll all hate him for in the morning.

“Hey.” He’s dressed as Maverick, from _Top Gun_ , mostly because he found the jacket on sale at the Salvation Army. He doesn’t think he looks _bad_ , but—Clarke’s in skin-tight leather _and a corset_ , and he’s wearing a jumpsuit. “You look, uh. What are you supposed to be?”

She grins at him, expectant. “I’m the Goblin Queen,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Where’s Octavia?”

“I’m assuming wherever the most alcohol is,” he says wryly, glancing around. “She’s a French maid. She _says_ she’s the one from _Clue_ , but she probably just wanted to wear the outfit.”

“Lincoln’s that guy from _Dirty Dancing_ ,” she chirps. “But the costume’s just an undershirt and pants, so I think he was just too lazy to find something different.”

“Cool,” he says, and the moment stretches into an uncomfortable silence. He’s at a party, talking with the girl he likes, who he’s pretty sure likes him back; it shouldn’t be this difficult.

But he can’t even really look at her right now. There’s too much skin, and cleavage. If he looks, he won’t be able to _stop_.

He nearly jumps when she takes his hand, tangling their fingers together. “Wanna get out of here?” she asks, sounding hopeful, which is just—how can she not be sure? He’s been so fucking _obvious_.

He squeezes her hand a little and grins. “Absolutely.”

He’s expecting to just head out through the door, or maybe find a utilities closet to make out in, but instead Clarke throws the crystal ball down at their feet. It shatters, and he flinches, about to ask _what the fuck_ , but when he looks up again, they’re standing outside a gray two-story house. Clarke’s Cherokee is parked in the driveway out front, and she’s smirking at him, smugly.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

“Magic,” she sing-songs.

Bellamy barks out a laugh, too shocked to do much else. "How long were you planning this? You worked it into your _costume_!" 

"I thought you'd ask me out by now," she shrugs, folding her arms around his neck, so he has to palm her waist to keep steady. "I got tired of waiting. Plus--" she grins wickedly. "I told you I’d prove you wrong.”

“Yeah,” he agrees as she pulls him down for a kiss. “You really did.”


End file.
